by J. T. Edson
Time went by and night arrived without Dusty seeing any way of breaking out. At no time did any of his captors enter the rear of the building or show that they remembered him. The door to the office remained open all the time, preventing any attempted tampering with the cell’s lock. First Ritson left the office, presumably to eat. Then, at around nine o’clock, the deputy returned and his companions departed. Sitting at the desk with his back to the cell doors, Ritson produced a bottle of whiskey from a drawer. After putting up his feet, he started to read a newspaper and took pulls at the bottle at intervals.
Dusty knew that he would probably not see a better chance to escape, but knew doing so needed some planning. Settling down on the hard wooden bunk, he gave thought to the matter.
Before any idea suggested itself, Dusty heard somebody outside the building softly whistling a familiar tune. Rising, he darted a glance at the office and, satisfied that Ritson had not heard, stood on the bunk. The window proved too high for him to look out and see the whistler.
‘Southrons hear your country call you,’ whispered a woman’s voice, giving the first line of the tune whistled to attract his attention.
During the War Dusty had twice worked with a prominent member of the Confederate States’ Secret Service, learning a password much used to identify one agent to another. He guessed that the speaker wanted to make sure who occupied the cell and prepared to speak the second fine of the highly patriotic words General Samuel Pike had put to Daniel D. Emmet’s immortal ‘Dixie’. That gave the required counter-sign.
‘Up lest worse than death befall you!’
A hand rose into view, gripping an ivory-butted Dance Brothers copy of the Colt 1851 Navy revolver. Taking the gun, Dusty drew it through the window.
‘How soon?’ asked the voice.
‘As quick as I can,’ he promised.
‘I’ll wait. Need any help?’
‘Let’s see if I can do without it first.’
‘I’ll give you ten minutes, then I’m moving in.’
Dropping back to the floor after listening to the speaker’s last whispered warning, Dusty turned his attention to the front office. Ritson still sat at the desk, clearly unaware that his prisoner had received a visitor. Quickly checking on the Dance’s condition, although he knew it would be ready for use, Dusty prepared to make his move.
‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Hey, John Law!’
When Ritson gave no sign of having heard, Dusty looked for a means of attracting his attention. Under the bunk lay a dirty plate left by a previous occupant of the cell. Picking it up, Dusty reached through the bars with it, took aim and skimmed it towards the deputy.
Luck favored the small Texan and the spinning missile struck Ritson on the head as he took a further drink from the almost empty bottle. Whiskey sprayed into the air, the bottle flew from Ritson’s hand, and he raised a bellow of rage. Slamming his feet to the floor, he sent the chair flying and spun around.
‘What the—!’ he began, clawing out his Adams.
‘How about some food?’ Dusty asked, holding the Dance concealed behind his back but ready for use.
‘Food?’ Ritson howled. ‘I’ll give you food, your peckerwood bastard!’
‘That’s what I asked for,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Miss Montoon’d not like hearing you town clowns kept me all hungered up.’
For a moment Dusty thought that he had pushed Ritson too far and tensed ready to shoot. Then the man thrust the Adams back into leather and started to turn away. It seemed that Miss Montoon’s name had a cooling effect on his temper.
‘Come on, you stinking Yankee son-of-a-bitch!’ Dusty shouted. ‘Go get some food. Or daren’t you step outside in case somebody asks how you got that swelled-up nose?’
Just as Dusty hoped, the remark sank home deep and hurt. Prideful in his appearance, Ritson felt touchy about the injury to his face. While the swelling would go down in time, he knew it looked unsightly and served as a reminder that he could be rough-handled. That such an insignificant runt had handed him the injury made the feeling far worse. Never too amiable-natured, the comment roused Ritson to a pitch of fury where he knew he must do something. Yet he remembered Spargo’s orders and hesitated.
‘You fetch me something to eat and I promise not to lick you when you bring it in here,’ Dusty went on. ‘Happen you meet a mean, one-armed, one-legged Digger Injun midget on the way, scream for your two amigos. The three of you together ought to be able to handle him happen he don’t try too hard.’
‘I’ll try on you!’ Ritson yelled and flung himself across the office out of Dusty’s sight.
On reappearing, Ritson carried a wicked-looking club collected from the wall rack. With the weapon gripped in his right hand, he charged to the cell door. Mouthing curses and threats, he turned the key in the lock. Dusty fell back against the wall, putting on a scared expression so as to encourage Ritson into rashness. Success attended his efforts for the deputy hurled open the door and entered.
Up swung the club, ready to descend with shattering force. In his anger Ritson clean forgot the deadly speed his intended victim had shown on their first encounter. Dusty weaved aside, gliding forward and ramming the barrel of the Dance savagely into Ritson’s belly. Lashing forward, the club struck the wall. Agony doubled Ritson over to take the back of Dusty’s Dance-loaded fist in the face. Lifted erect, the deputy stood for a brief moment dazed and unable to move. Again Dusty swung his right hand, smashing the base of the revolver’s butt on to the point of Ritson’s jaw. The blow pitched the man sideways into the wall, then he slid down to the floor.
‘You didn’t try half hard enough,’ Dusty remarked as he hauled the unconscious deputy on to the bed and covered him with the dirty flour-sack blanketing supplied for use by the prisoners.
After locking the cell door and pocketing the key, Dusty went to the adjoining door. He saw no sign of movement outside the front of the office but wasted no time. Collecting his Army Colt from the desk drawer, he crossed to the side door and opened it. To warn his helper that he was coming out, he whistled a few bars of ‘Dixie’. Then he stepped into the side alley and closed the door.
A slender shape moved from the shadows at the rear end of the building. No longer did the elegant rusty-red locks frame the beautiful face, having in some way been replaced by almost boyishly-short black hair. Instead of the fashionable Eastern travelling suit, she wore a black shirt and riding breeches tucked into calf-high boots; an outfit which did even more to show off the feminine curves nature had endowed her with. Yet it was still the girl known to the deputies as Miss Eliza Montoon.
‘Thanks, Belle,’ Dusty said, holding out the Dance.
‘Land-sakes, Dusty,’ the girl replied, sounding more like a rich Southern belle than a New England intellectual, ‘you nearly scared me white-haired when you burst out of that saloon.’
‘Had I been asked who I expected to run into here, you’d’ve been the last to come to mind,’ Dusty replied, tucking his Colt into his belt while the girl took possession of her Dance.
‘I have to see you urgently, Dusty,’ the girl stated, her voice taking on a more sober note. ‘But not right now. Captain Grare thinks I’m snuggled down safe in my bed, but I’d rather wait until he’s asleep before I stay away too long,’
‘I’ll wait someplace in town if you like.’
‘It’d be better if you left, wouldn’t it?’
‘Maybe. I don’t reckon they’ll go to the trouble of setting a posse after me if they find my horse’s gone.’
‘Is there a place close by where we could meet soon after midnight?’ asked the girl.
‘Sure. Go out along the westbound trail for about a mile. I’ll be waiting in the woods,’ Dusty replied. ‘Can you do that?’
‘Yes. Give me until just before daylight. If I’m not there by then, I’ll come tomorrow night. Can you stay on for me?’
‘If it’s important,’ Dusty answered.
‘It’s important,’ Miss ‘Montoon’ assured
him.
‘Then I’ll be there,’ Dusty promised. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ll get back into the hotel the same way I came out, down the fire-escape rope from my room’s window. It’s safe enough, I’m at the back of the building.’
While wondering at the urgency of Miss ‘Montoon’s’ request, Dusty knew he must wait for the answer. At any moment his escape might be discovered. If he could leave town before Ritson’s mistake became known, he doubted if there would be any pursuit. So he left the girl, each going by the back streets to their destinations. Wasting no time on pondering at the smallness of the world, he made his way to the livery barn.
Although the owner looked out of his office, he withdrew again on recognizing his caller. Nobody else appeared as Dusty quickly saddled the bay and he led it out of the building’s side entrance without attracting attention. Just as he rode out of town, Dusty heard Ritson yelling. A grin came to the small Texan’s face as he urged the bay off across the range. By the time any pursuit might be organized, he would have a good head start and tracking in the dark was impossible.
While making a looping swing designed to bring him back on to the west-bound trail, Dusty wondered again at Miss ‘Montoon’s’ presence in town. That she had chanced coming to his rescue did not surprise him, but he felt curious to learn the reason why she had asked to see him again.
Still unable to form any conclusion, he rode along the trail through the woodland surrounding the remains of his uncle’s home. Then he heard the mournful cry of the whippoorwill repeated twice.
‘Lon?’ he said.
‘If it’s anybody else, he’s wearing my clothes,’ answered the Kid’s voice and he walked from among the trees. ‘Mark was getting worried about you. Allowed you’d done got into trouble and that we ought to come in and ask some questions about it.’
‘Did, huh?’ Dusty said.
‘Sure. But I said to him straight, “Mark”, I said, “you-all know what Dusty told us. Let’s us just do like he said”.’
‘That’s what you told him?’
‘As true as I’m sat here fishing for snapping-turtles in the river.’
‘Catch many?’ Dusty asked dryly.
‘What happened, anyways?’ said the Kid, ignoring the question. ‘We expected you back earlier.’
‘Not much. So you figured on coming in to rescue me, huh?’
‘Mark figured we should,’ corrected the Kid doggedly. ‘Now me, I said—’
‘I didn’t believe you the first time,’ interrupted Dusty.
‘Anyways, we’d got help should we need it,’ drawled the Kid.
‘How come?’
‘Met up with Stone Hart and the Wedge on the trail. They were on their way into Bonham, but we asked them to stay out until you got back. They’re with Mark back there a piece.’
Dusty approved of his companions’ actions. Once again Mark and the Kid had shown themselves capable of serious thought. They knew that one of the Wedge crew might let slip Dusty’s identity and ruin all his efforts at remaining anonymous. So they had put the facts plainly to the outfit’s boss and Stone Hart cooperated.
‘Let’s go see them and say “Thanks”,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Are they all on hand?’
‘All the regular crew,’ the Kid agreed, leading the way off the trail.
With skill gained during years of Indian-country life, the Wedge crew and Dusty’s amigos had set up a comfortable but well-concealed camp out of sight of the trail. While attending to his horse, Dusty looked at the men gathered around the fire and recognized them all. During the time a year before when he had run the law in a wild Montana gold camp, x Dusty had come to know the Wedge crew pretty well and had cause to be thankful to at least two of its members. They were contract trail-drivers, running cattle to the Kansas railheads for smaller ranches which lacked capital or large enough herds to make the trip as individuals. Skilled at their work, capable and loyal, the men before Dusty formed a group as tough and handy as any in Texas, up to and including the OD Connected hands.
‘Maybe you’d best go watch the trail for a piece, Lon,’ Dusty remarked, before moving towards the fire. ‘Could be folks’ll come looking and it’d be best they didn’t find me.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ promised the Kid. ‘These said folks wouldn’t be lawmen, now would they?’
‘Yep,’ drawled Dusty.
‘Don’t you go telling ole Peaceful about them, you’re likely to scare him to peeing his pants.’
With that the Kid faded off into the darkness and Dusty walked towards the fire. Just as the Kid claimed, all the Wedge’s regular crew appeared to be present.
‘Howdy, Stone,’ Dusty greeted, holding his hand out to the tall young man who turned to face him.
A handsome face, marred by a long scar on its left cheek, smiled back at the small Texan. Although dressed in range clothes, Stone Hart had the indefinable air of a leader. He had collected the scar from a Yankee saber during the War and tended to be self-conscious about it around strangers.
‘Hi, Dusty,’ Hart said. ‘What’s doing?’
‘He just stopped us going to town out of meanness,’ put in the handsome, red-haired scout of the outfit, Johnny Raybold.
‘That’s just the kind of thing he’d do,’ agreed the stocky, rusty-headed young man who had been one of Dusty’s deputies in Quiet Town. Rusty Willis had learned plenty about practical law enforcement at that time and had given good service.
‘Anyways,’ put in Peaceful Gunn, a middle-sized man with a drooping moustache and mournful face that usually bore a worried expression. ‘Happen we’d’ve gone in, there’d’ve been drinking, carousing, maybe fighting even. I figure we’re better off out here.’
Which comment fooled nobody, especially none of the other men around the fire. Tall, lean, middle-aged and whang-leather tough Waggles Harrison, the crew’s segundo, let out a disbelieving snort. A snigger broke from Silent Churchman, a man no taller than Dusty yet with a reputation for enormous strength—and belying both of his names at the end of the drive. Nor did the grizzled, elderly cook, known as Chow Willicks, show any concern at Gunn’s outburst. Last of the crew, but by no means the least, stood Doc Leroy. Tall, slim, with a tan-resisting pallor to his face, Doc looked studious and mild. Yet he too was a top hand at all branches of trail herding and real fast with the ivory-handled Army Colt hanging low at his right side, the flap of his jacket stitched back to leave free access to the weapon. Like Rusty Willis, Doc had learned law-enforcement at Dusty’s hands and would put the training to good use in the future as a member of the Arizona Rangers trying to bring law to that troubled land. xi
Greeting various members of the outfit, Dusty settled on his heels by the fire. In the background stood the Wedge’s chuck wagon and Chow Willicks appeared to have been at work. Muttering uncomplimentary comments about folk who couldn’t show when the grub was on, and a statement that he never figured on feeding half the blasted OD Connected as well as the hungry turkey buzzards his boss misinformedly called hands, the old cook set to work to raise a meal for the new arrival.
‘What kept you so long in town, Dusty?’ asked Mark.
‘I was in jail.’
Some surprise showed and none of the usual ribald comments which usually greeted such an announcement followed Dusty’s words. Getting tossed in jail on a visit to town rated as a misfortune that might happen to the average cowhand, but they never imagined it could happen to Dusty Fog.
‘And they let you out?’ Johnny Raybold finally demanded. ‘There’s no justice is what I say.’
‘They didn’t let me out,’ corrected Dusty. ‘I left without asking permission from them.’
‘Now they’ll be a-hunting you all which ways,’ groaned Peaceful Gunn.
‘Nope, I played it smart,’ Dusty replied. ‘I told them I was you.’
‘Now that’s what I call a mighty slick way of getting out of it,’ grinned Rusty Willis. ‘The law’ll be after ole Peaceful now instead of you.’
‘Which same don’t surprise me none,’ the doleful-looking hand stated. ‘I was sure borned to trouble.’
Any stranger studying Peaceful for the first time might have felt sorry for him, or wondered how such a nervous natured man had taken to the dangerous business of trailing cattle. None of the Wedge crew or floating outfit regarded him in that light. The scared attitude and protestations of a peaceable nature were nothing more than a pose. A number of hard-cases had learned the fact to their pains when trying to browbeat or bully him.
Guessing that their boss wanted to talk privately with Dusty, the Wedge hands engaged each other in conversation or did such chores that required their attention. Mark and Stone looked at the small Texan with interest and the blond giant opened the questioning.
‘How come you wound up in the pokey?’
‘Seems like the local law don’t take to folks asking about what happened the day Bill Waggets was killed,’ Dusty replied. ‘They got so insistent about it that I got all carried away and wound up in a cell.’
‘Then they repented, apologized and turned you loose?’ asked Stone.
‘Something like that. Did Mark tell you why we’re up here?’
‘Sure.’
‘I figured the boys had a right to know why I wanted them to stop out here, instead of going into town.’
‘You did right, Mark,’ Dusty confirmed.
‘Did anybody get hurt when you bust out, Dusty?’ Stone said, wanting to know just how deep the water he was approaching might be.
‘I had to put a deputy to sleep,’ Dusty replied. ‘Not hard enough to do any real damage.’
A point which Ritson, with a broken nose, might have argued upon. However Stone accepted Dusty’s claim. Knowing the small Texan, Stone realized that only the most dire circumstances would have caused him to come into conflict with the law. No intellectual, Stone admitted that much of Texas’ law enforcement could stand plenty of improvement. Most likely the deputy had received no more than his due. Certainly Dusty would not act in such a manner unless driven to it by sheer necessity.